


No Tears for the Wicked

by Donoweenie



Series: The Manic Highs and the Depressed Lows [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: ?? - Freeform, I'm gonna leave it there and call it a day, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Internalized Transphobia, It was for Creative Writing, Memoirs, Mental Health Issues, Religious Guilt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 10:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18092861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donoweenie/pseuds/Donoweenie
Summary: January  26th, 2019I'm not sure why I did it.





	No Tears for the Wicked

The fear, the mania, and the dread.

It was all I could remember.

There was nothing to fear, or at least nothing reasonable.

The rising panic and terror, the twisted thoughts and false accusations.

I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t think clearly. I don’t know what brought on the anxiety attack on.

Everything was numb but at the same time, everything was hot and cold.

The cold twisted metal grazed the numbly hot hand, blood appeared on the surface.

My mind went blank as I dragged my hand across the jutted-out screw, lines cutting deep into the skin.

I need to be punished but I didn’t know for what.

For being a failure? For not pushing myself harder? For the ruined veil of innocence and sin afflicted upon me? For being someone that went against of God’s work? For thinking about committing the worst sin that one could do against oneself?

Or was for to feel something? To feel human and to know that I’m alive?

Or was it for some kind of sick pleasure?

I prayed it wasn’t the latter, why would I get pleasure out of drawing my own blood?

Blood ran down my hand, cooling as it dripped onto the wooden steps. Tears left unshed.

I absentmindedly scratch my hand, picking at dried blood and making the wound worse.

Was the point to take the blade and draw one’s blood?

Every answer was different for everyone.

For me, I did not know.

Perhaps, I did not _want_ to know.

Afraid of the answer.

Afraid of the reason.

I wiped the blood, fresh and dried, onto my pajama pants.

With my non-scarred hand, I wiped my tears.

I had no reason to shed tears.

No peace for the wicked

No tears for the wicked.


End file.
